


Reel-to-reel

by orphan_account



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drug Usage and Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22077724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Bored and without much else to do, Cassidy humors the chained archangel dangling above him.
Relationships: The Archangel/Proinsias Cassidy
Kudos: 8





	Reel-to-reel

The desert is a mean spirited comedian that delights in crushing and spitting on its audience. Cassidy raises a hand to his eye, knuckling at a lodged grain of sand. His cellmate doesn't offer any helpful tips on how to escape the fortress of Masada but the hovering archangel could spare a couple jokes of his own. Though still convulsing after an evening shared with his scalpel-happy executioner, Cassidy couldn't help but snicker when the celestial host ripped what was quite possibly the nastiest fart he'd ever had the displeasure of being trapped in a hole buried out in the middle of god knows where with.

The archangel's sense of humor had the funny effect of either speeding up or slowing down an evening depending on the severity and variety of Cassidy's wounds. The vampire was used to the physical ones at this point in his much too long life: cracked bones, severed limbs, mutilated and exposed organs were just glorified scratches that mended up nicely after a couple pints of blood. Mental scarring was a bit trickier but still fairly easy to patch up assuming there was anything nearby he could swallow to melt his brain with. Drugs. Liquor. MacGyvered chemical cocktails featuring a generous helping of Clorox, Windex, and fire retardant strong enough to burn straight through his body. You name it, Cassidy has tried it. Anything would do so long as there was enough of it to drown himself and a couple elephants with.

 _Nah._ Mere child's play. It was the emotional blistering that hurt the most, those thousands of abrasions bubbling and popping away at his already pulverized heart. 

Speaking hurts but adds a new level of pain that distracts him from his old one. Calling out obscure movie quotes and trivia, the two men's voices echo throughout the dusty torture chamber as they test one another's pop culture prowess. Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, Cassidy was grateful to the obnoxious bastard for keeping his mind off lost family and friends - if only for a few minutes before remembering that half-buried secret wish to return to them. Cassidy aligns himself parallel to the stone wall, stretching out his back. His leg has fallen asleep for what was surely the tenth time in the last hour and he tries shaking it but the chains around his ankles allow him only so much wiggle room.

"Annebelle's voice actress? From the first film." 

"Melba Moore!" The archangel laughs heartily. "Too easy, too easy. You'll have to do better than that, lad."

"Yeah, but who'd she play in _The Sidelong Glances of a Pigeon Kicker_ , eh?"

The archangel narrows his gaze in thought. Tilting his head, his wings shudder in the breeze and a couple feathers fall down towards Cassidy like snow. "Was she the cute one at the party? Did her character even have a name? _Oh, he is a tricky little bat, isn't he_. "

"Mmm," Cassidy grants his opponent a point. Digging a finger under a steel cuff to massage the bruised flesh around his wrist, he can hear footsteps beyond the cell door but doesn't bother to look in its direction. Judging by the sunlight streaming in from the open ceiling, it's still too early for another round with Frankie; the Italian liked to stick to a schedule when dishing out unspeakable horror. The footsteps eventually fade away and so too does that tiny little spark of hope that maybe, _just maybe_ , it was Tulip or Jesse having finally come to save him. He resents the spark for having ever been there in the first place.

"My turn. Who composed the musical score for the 1996 film _Michael_?"

"Randy Newman, who did that and every other fucking whimsy laced film soundtrack." Cassidy snorts, his eyes rolling so far back that they threaten to disappear into his skull.

"What's wrong with Newman? The man practically carries Pixar."

"He's a goddamn hack is what's wrong him. Half his shit sounds the same." There's a finality to Cassidy's tone that suggests he won't (or can't) elaborate further.

"I rather enjoyed _The Flik Machine_. Playful and catchy little tune right there." The archangel begins swaying in his chains, humming along to an unheard orchestra. 

"Of course - _you-_ would. Christ."

"Bit grumpy, he is. Misses the missus? Needs a nap before he flies the cave for darker pastures? " The archangel eyes Cassidy's wrists with bemused suspicion.

Cassidy clicks his tongue but can't argue with such blatant fact.

The archangel then says something too bold and close to home for Cassidy's liking and he reflexively snaps back with such corrosive sarcasm that his mouth starts to sting. They start bantering and bickering but after awhile, Cassidy can't muster the energy to continue. He needs a drink and badly, both of the toxic and life saving variety. A long silence passes between the damned souls. Cassidy closes his eyes and loses himself in his own misery. Memories of the past and anxieties concerning and endless future wash over him with the force of the ocean. _The ocean..._ The shores of Ireland were special but he couldn't recall what they actually looked like. They'd smelled salty... presumably... _right?_

Exactly how much time passes, there's no way of knowing. He wasn't that particular breed of intellectual who fancied studying the sun too closely, not that he didn't long for the days that he rightfully could, of course. Days. Years. Centuries. _Goddamn, was there truly no end to it all?_

When Cassidy glances up again, the archangel gives a strange knowing smile before cutting loose another horn-like fart somehow even more grotesquely goofy than the last, to which the vampire meets with a slack jawed stare. And yet...

" _Fucking hell, man."_ How something so small and stupid could crack such a thick sour mood, Cassidy hadn't the faintest clue. The vampire doesn't laugh - he doesn't have the stamina required to raise his diaphragm like that - but his loneliness isn't as crushing as it had been moments ago. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

Though burdened by the weight of his own sins and grievances, the archangel still has enough passion for a seemingly doomed world to laugh for the both of them. Maybe he found the gesture poignant or perhaps he was just desperate for any sense of connection to another person, _any person at all_ , but Cassidy supposes that right here and now he kind of loves him for it. The immortal prisoner couldn't decide definitively if having that connection or love mattered in the long run but it was certainly entertaining at the very least.


End file.
